


when there's nowhere else to run

by colorblindbody



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Post-Split, Ryden, abuse tw, i don't write good summaries i am very sorry, idk where this came from honestly i just hate shane morris, lonely moonlight, rape tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-02 08:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10940667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colorblindbody/pseuds/colorblindbody
Summary: Someone is screaming and it isn’t Shane and it sure as hell isn’t himself and Dottie is still barking and his whole body aches. He forces his eyes open and he’s sure he must be hallucinating because the first thing he sees is Brendon Urie.Ryan’s not quite sure how he let things get so bad, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he can’t survive it for much longer.





	1. PART 1

**PART 1**

He’s not quite sure how he let things get so bad.

He’s barely eaten for days, slept maybe a grand total of six hours over the course of four nights. He can’t walk through his own house without panic overtaking him, yet he can’t bring himself to step outside its walls either, so he spends most of his time on the couch with a cigarette in one hand and the other buried in his dog’s short fur. The glow of the TV vies for his attention from dawn to dusk, casting long shadows across the unlit living room as each day turns to night, but his eyes hardly stray from the front door. This is his life now, this is all he’s doing with his time, while his instruments lie untouched in forlorn corners of the house and cobwebs weave their way across the dried-up inkwell that is his mind, and if he could think clearly enough to string more than a few thoughts together at once he would likely reflect on just how unfortunate and fucked up that really is.

Ryan’s not quite sure how he let things get so bad, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he can’t survive it for much longer.

He hears the key in the lock at a quarter past five. His entire body tenses up and Dottie has already jumped to the floor, slipping into the half-foot of space between the TV cabinet and the wall. He can hear her low, uncharacteristic growl, the one reserved solely for _him_.

He should really get up, run, do _something_ , and he knows this, even as his limbs remained fused to the couch cushions, burnt-out cigarette dropping from his shaking hand to the ashtray. Whatever part of him that had once held the instinct of self-preservation had died a long time ago.

The door swings open and Shane Morris stalks through it like he owns the place. It slams shut behind him and he doesn’t bother to twist the lock back around. It doesn’t matter. Ryan doesn’t care. It’s not like he’s going to leave, and the one thing he is most scared of coming through that door can no longer be kept out by the simple frivolity of a lock.

Their eyes meet for an instant, just long enough for Ryan to see those black hole pupils gleam before his gaze drops to the floor.

“Afternoon, vampire boy.” His voice is loud, too loud. The cushions shift as he flops down next to Ryan, who flinches at the sharp jab of an elbow into his upper arm.

“Go grab us some drinks.” It’s a command, not a request. Ryan’s legs move without his permission, escort him from living room to kitchen. His fingers curl around the bottle of scotch, pick up two short glasses and he doesn’t think about it, can’t, won’t think about it, won’t think about the stench of bar already hanging from Shane’s wrinkled shirt at five in the afternoon and the stale alcohol on his breath from drinks he’s already consumed. He doesn’t wonder how many drinks this makes as he sets the bottle and glasses on the coffee table, won’t let himself anticipate what might happen once this one is had. He just watches as Shane pours a somewhat equivalent amount of the dark liquor into each glass and doesn’t refuse the one he is handed.

He sits still as stone while Shane flips through channels, his only movements the occasional act of bringing a sip of scotch to his lips. It sloshes uncomfortably in his empty stomach and he doesn’t want it, not one bit. Shane smokes one of Ryan’s cigarettes in between long gulps, pausing to pour himself a second serving. He laughs at something happening on the TV screen and the sound grates against Ryan’s skull like sandpaper.

“You gotta get done with one of those songs, Ross,” he says all of the sudden. “I’m tellin’ ya. All those little shits on the internet are just dying over it. They got your name to trend on twitter like three times in the last six months just ‘cuz I told them you’d release music if they did. Crazy little fuckers.” He chuckles. Ryan’s stomach twists into a knot. “But y’know they’re getting bored, you’re gonna have to actually do something useful with yourself if you wanna get back on the map. I’m surprised you’re still on anyone’s radar at this point, honestly. Even if it is mostly just dumb preteen bitches.”

There was a time when Ryan Ross would have bristled and snapped a harsh comeback hearing such words. Now he just stays frozen with his eyes glued to the television, scotch glass clutched tightly to keep his hands from shaking.

“Hello, I’m talkin’ to you!” Ryan jumps, a short gasp of pain escaping him when the lit end of Shane’s cigarette presses against his bare forearm, following his skin when he reflexively jerks away from the offending object, until the end is no longer lit and Shane loses interest. Crumbs of ash cling to the thin hairs on Ryan’s arms. He doesn’t bother to brush them away.

Somehow this must all be funny to Shane, because he is chuckling again, and Ryan for the life of him can’t fathom how he ended up on the same couch as someone who would be stricken with amusement at the sight of another person’s pain and discomfort. For some reason, he clings to this thread of thought, brushing the cobwebs off as it unravels.

“You oughta pay attention when people are talkin’ to you.” Shane knocks back the last of his scotch. “Anyway. Songs n’ shit. You should give me that one you had done a while back, what was it, ‘Lonely Moonlight’ or whatever.”

“No.”

The word surprises Ryan, then scares him, because Shane is also surprised and it shows in his glittering irises when he leans forward and grabs Ryan by the shoulder. His fingernails dig into Ryan’s skin through the thin material of his shirt, and Ryan winces. Shane’s mouth is close enough for Ryan to smell the beads of scotch still lingering on his tongue as he hisses, “ _What?_ ”

Ryan winces, but repeats, quieter this time, “No.” He swallows, hard, past the growing lump in his throat. “You can’t have that one.” His throat is raspy from lack of use and his words are wavering, but a shadow falls over Shane’s face in reaction to them all the same.

“I don’t remember saying you were allowed to say no.”

He sees just in time the empty glass headed for his face. He cringes away from the blow, turning his head just in time for the glass to shatter behind his ear instead. Reeling from the impact, he slides to the floor, scotch spilling over the beige carpet as his own glass falls from his shaking hand.

Shane is up as soon as Ryan’s knees hit the floor and Ryan struggles to his feet. He dodges Shane’s hand as it makes a swipe for the nape of his neck and manages to stagger into the kitchen before he is roughly shoved forward. His palms hit the linoleum and this time he doesn’t get up right away; black spots are dancing in front of his eyes and he feels the thin trickling of blood past the back of his ear. He feels so dizzy, so disgustingly weak. He wonders what would happen if he just laid down, if he pressed his cheek to the cool linoleum and just gave up.

He hears himself whimper as he is flipped onto his back before being silenced by a heavy punch to the jaw. His head snaps to the side and the spots around his vision deepen for a split second and he thinks maybe he will pass out, be granted at least the reprieve of not being awake for what is about to happen.

But his sight clears, and with it the disordered buzzing in his ears, and he hears the sound of something heavy sliding across the floor. From the corners of his gaze he can see Shane’s foot hooked around the large box Ryan keeps next to the back door for glass recycling, filled to the brim with empty bottles. It slides within arm’s reach and Ryan is bathed in a familiar wave of panic as Shane’s fingers curl around the neck of a bottle that once held twelve ounces of cheap beer and he claws, desperate, against the smooth floor beneath him, against Shane’s vice grip on the collar of his shirt, but to no avail. The bottle comes hurtling toward his face and he flings his arms up just in time to catch the brunt of the blow. Glass shatters around him and he can feel tiny shards embedding themselves in his skin.

He has no time to react as his arms are yanked away from his face. Shane’s entire bald head has turned bright red with frenzied rage. “You don’t get to say no to me!” he roars, and his hand closes over Ryan’s throat, cutting off his sob of pain. Ryan can hear Dottie barking frantically, but the sound is fading further and further into the background as the humming in his ears grows louder, and even as his fingernails scratch and pull at Shane’s rough hand there is a quiet whisper in the back of his brain telling him to let go of the instinct to fight for air and just let it happen, to just let go, and darkness is once more creeping into the edges of his vision and tears are trickling down his face and his lungs feel like they are going to burst—

The pressure lifts and air floods his chest. Someone is screaming and it isn’t Shane and it sure as hell isn’t himself and Dottie is still barking and his whole body aches. He forces his eyes open and he’s sure he must be hallucinating because the first thing he sees is Brendon Urie.

Brendon is the one screaming, fury twisted across his face, screaming at Shane who is picking himself up off the floor and trying to stem the flow of blood that suddenly streams from his nose. Brendon places himself between Shane and Ryan as Shane rises into a threatening stance. Ryan’s tired mind strains to turn the screams to words as the pounding in his eardrums clears.

“I should kill you. Motherfucker, I should fucking _kill_ you right now.”

Brendon is practically spitting, he’s so angry, but Shane doesn’t even flinch. “Gee, what a blast from the past,” he sneers. “Come to make a heroic entrance, Urie? It’s only been what, three, four years?”

Brendon curls his hands into tight fists. “Get out,” he snarls. “Get out right now or I swear to god—”

“You’ll what? Make me?”

“I have 911 keyed up. All I have to do is press ‘call’ and the cops will be here in minutes.”

Shane narrows his eyes. “I don’t think you want to do that.”

“No, I don’t think _you_ want me to do that.”

They glare at each other for several long seconds, and Ryan is painfully aware of the sound of his own strangled breathing each time it pierces the tense silence around them.

“Fine,” Shane says at last. “But I’d be careful, Urie, getting involved in things you shouldn’t be.”

“I think I’ll take my chances.”

Shane opens the back door, eyes still glued to Brendon’s. “Then I’d watch your back if I were you.”

He’s gone before Brendon has time to snap a response, the door slamming shut behind him. Brendon lets him leave, spinning on his heels and dropping to his knees at Ryan’s side. “Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, staring at the deep gashes in Ryan’s forearms.

Ryan regards him for a moment, expression blank and vision still somewhat fuzzy. “You’re gonna get glass in your knees,” he mumbles finally, his words weak and raspy.

Brendon blinks down at him and a cool shiver runs down Ryan’s spine and briefly he allows himself to hope with all his might that this is not all just a figment of his oxygen-starved brain.

“I’m taking you to the hospital. Don’t argue,” Brendon adds, seeing Ryan about to protest. “Is anything broken?”

“No,” Ryan murmurs. “Don’t think so.”

“Okay. Hold on. Where do you keep rags, towels?”

“Bathroom. Off the bedroom.”

Brendon stands up and disappears for a minute. Dottie whines from the edge of the room, looking wistfully at Ryan with large, sad eyes. She backs away into the living room as Brendon returns to the kitchen with the frayed brown towels Ryan keeps in the bottom of the bathroom closet. Ryan winces as Brendon lifts his left forearm by the wrist so that he can wrap a rag underneath.

“Sorry,” Brendon apologizes, his voice quiet. “Hold that against your chest.” He wraps the right arm and crosses it over the left. “I’m gonna take you to the car. Try not to move your arms.”

Ryan bites back a whimper as Brendon lifts him off the floor, one arm tucked beneath his knees and the other curled around his upper back.

“God, Ryan, you’re so light.” Brendon’s whisper is laced with concern. Ryan is too tired to care. He lets his head rest against Brendon’s shoulder, soaking the other man’s body heat into his skin. He can hear Dottie still whining from her hiding spot next to the TV as Brendon carries him out the front door, hooking his foot around its edge to jerk it shut behind them.

Brendon’s sleek black sports car is parked haphazardly in the center of Ryan’s driveway. Brendon manages to open the door on the passenger side with Ryan still cradled in his arms, and eases him into the seat as gently as possible. He pulls the lever at the base of the chair and tilts the top of the seat back several degrees so that Ryan sits in less of an upright position. He pulls the seatbelt across Ryan’s lap before shutting the door and running around to the other side of the car. Ryan watches with heavy-lidded eyes as Brendon starts the engine and backs out of the driveway. His jaw is clenched, shoulders stiff with tension, and Ryan knows the questions are coming.

And sure enough: “How long?”

Ryan looks away, even though Brendon’s gaze has not wavered from the road before him. He doesn’t want to do this right now, or ever for that matter, and especially not with Brendon. “A while.”

“Ryan. How long.”

Ryan flinches at the harshness that has crept into Brendon’s tone. “Four months,” he whispers.

Brendon is quiet save for a long, angry exhale of breath. Ryan turns back to him, studying his hardened face. His features have matured over the last several years, his jawline looking especially sharper and more defined than Ryan remembered. His hair is cut differently too, and combed back away from his face.

“I’m still not sure this is real,” Ryan mumbles quietly, though the noticeable difference in Brendon’s appearance has started to convince him otherwise.

Brendon throws a sideways glance in his direction, notices him staring. “What?”

“Why did you come?”

Brendon looks uncomfortable now, and he shifts in his seat. “I’ve been calling you. I called like, ten times. You didn’t answer, I thought something might be wrong.”

Ryan can’t remember the last time he even checked his phone, let alone knew where it was. “My phone’s been dead.”

“For three days?”

Now it’s Ryan’s turn to squirm, or at least it would be if every slight movement didn’t send pain shooting through him. “Why would you even be calling me?”

Brendon sighs, sweeping his fingers through his hair. “It’s… a long story, Ryan, maybe we should talk about it later.”

“I don’t want to talk about it later.” Ryan surprises himself with his own forwardness; he’s forgotten he’s even capable of it after months of forced meekness. “Tell me.”

Brendon looks at him again, longer this time, eyes gleaming with uncertainty. “Fine. I kept getting tweeted links to this tumblr post. After a while I realized they were all to the same post. I finally got curious a few days ago because at that point I’d been seeing it a lot whenever I would have time to get on and scroll through replies, you know how fans can be with that shit. Anyway, I… I went to the post, and it was basically one of those long theory things that I usually don’t pay attention to because, well, normally they’re pretty stupid and don’t actually make sense or I already know they’re not true or whatever. But this one, it just… whoever wrote it had figured out the general time you basically dropped off the face of the earth – like, stopped posting on Instagram, getting pictures with fans in public, all of that – was basically around the same time Shane started announcing to everyone that he was your so-called ‘manager’. And then there were these pictures, I guess from the few times someone did see you in public, you probably didn’t even know they were being taken. And you just looked so… awful, Ryan, you looked fucking awful, like you hadn’t slept or eaten in days, some of them you aren’t even bothering to cover up the fact that there are huge bruises all over your fucking arms, and there’s this one, it’s… You’re sitting at a table, some outdoor café, and Shane is standing beside you like he’s just walked up and the look on your face…”

Ryan cringes. He remembers that day, Shane just appearing out of nowhere as he sat sipping coffee next to the quiet street, being stricken with the realization that regardless of where he was he would never be truly safe.

“I tried calling first,” Brendon says. “I didn’t want to just… show up, after all this time, but…” He gnaws on his bottom lip, glancing at Ryan’s arms, still cradled against his chest, from the corners of his eyes. “I shouldn’t have waited so long.”

“How did you even know where I live?”

Brendon’s cheeks flush. “I called Jon,” he mutters, as he makes a right turn into the hospital parking lot.

Ryan feels his stomach twist. “Did you…”

“Yeah. I’m sorry,” he adds, seeing the shadow that falls across Ryan’s face. “He wouldn’t tell me until I told him why I needed to know.”

“What did he say?” Ryan whispers, eyes glued to the floor of the car as Brendon eased onto a parking spot several yards from the ER door.

“He just told me to come get you. As fast as I could.” He turns off the car, unbuckles, steps outside. Ryan falls silent as Brendon joins him on the passenger side, unlatches his seatbelt.

“I can stand,” Ryan mumbles as Brendon reaches down to scoop him back into his arms. A frown creases the younger man’s brow but he steps back, allowing Ryan to struggle to his feet.

The world immediately tilts around Ryan and he takes a deep breath, leaning against the side of the car to catch his bearings. He jumps when Brendon places a steadying hand on his shoulder. He meets Brendon’s gaze, sees the shine of concern in those dark eyes he used to know so well, familiar and foreign all at once. He sighs, closes his eyes briefly as Brendon pushes the door shut and locks the car doors.

“C’mon,” Brendon murmurs, and places a light arm around Ryan’s shoulders to steady him as they walk up to the building.

It takes half an hour for them to get seen, a surprisingly short wait time for an emergency room in LA, though it feels like an eternity to Ryan with Brendon seated at his side, filling out his paperwork for him, clearing his throat and bouncing his leg and twiddling his fingers. When the nurse asks Ryan if he wants Brendon to come back with him he mutters “yeah, sure, fine.”

Surprise paints Brendon’s face but he follows Ryan into the exam room without protest. He lingers in the back corner of the room while the nurse takes Ryan’s temperature, listens to his heartbeat. She leaves with the promise that a doctor will be in shortly to tend to his arms, and the door closes behind her with a soft click.

Ryan can hear the sounds of Brendon lingering behind him, shuffling his feet and shifting his weight back and forth. Part of him receives some odd sense of comfort from it; another wishes Brendon would just sit in the empty chair next to the examination bench and be still.

“Why did they send it to you?” Ryan asks, after several long minutes of silence pierced only be the sounds of Brendon’s fidgeting.

A couple of beats pass and Ryan pictures Brendon hesitating. “You know why,” he says finally.

Ryan swears his heart throws in an extra beat hearing this, and he hates himself for it. He lets silence creep back into the room, deciding he is too tired to get mentally twisted up in this right now.

He regards his wounds with vague detachment when the doctor, whose introduction falls short of his weary ears, unwraps his arms, a cake of blood splattered across the towels and dried along his skin. He can hear Brendon’s sharp intake of breath, so he knows it must look rather awful. The ironic – or perhaps sad is the more correct word – part is, he’s had worse over the course of the last four months, and he hasn’t once been to the hospital.

“You have a strong stomach,” the doctor says, noticing Ryan doesn’t avert his eyes as he begins to tweeze pieces of glass from his left arm. Ryan doesn’t have the energy to reply. Even if he did, it’s not like he would give the real reason for his lack of revulsion; the fact that he’s long since grown used to picking shards of glass out of his skin. Brendon has moved around to Ryan’s left side and Ryan feels Brendon’s piercing gaze on his face. He just continues to watch the doctor work, refusing to pass Brendon any more silent communication than he already had.

The entire process seems to be over as soon as it begins. Ryan’s not sure whether he’s too tired to have an accurate sense of time or too used to long hours hunched over the bathroom sink, fingers shaking and sweat dripping from his forehead by the time he’s finished picking glass from his flesh and doing his best to bandage himself up.

The doctor ties the last knot and straightens his back. “Okay, and you can just drop by in a week or two to have those removed, all right?” Ryan sees the doctor’s eyes sweep the rest of his uncovered skin, taking note of the fresh scarring up and down his arms, the bruising around his neck. “So… how did this happen?”

Ryan meets the doctor’s gaze with cool indifference. “Accident. I fell.”

Brendon makes a choked noise from behind them and warmth spreads across his cheeks. He ducks his head, glaring down at the floor.

The doctor regards both Brendon and Ryan for a moment. “Okay. Well. If that isn’t actually what happened, this is a safe space and if you want to press charges—”

“It was an accident,” Ryan repeats, interrupting the doctor’s speech. “I fell. On glass.”

“Ryan.” He suppresses a flinch at the sharp bite in Brendon’s tone. He turns his head just enough to look up at Brendon, whose forehead is creased in a deep frown. They stare at one another, Ryan’s stomach churning nervously.

After several seconds the doctor clears his throat and nods, removing his exam gloves. “Okay. Make sure you come back in about seven to ten days then, all right? You don’t need to make an appointment, just drop by whenever you have time.”

Ryan nods, breaking eye contact with Brendon, who still looks deeply perturbed. He says nothing as they exit the hospital, both keeping silent until they are seated once more in Brendon’s car.

“You _fell?_ ” Brendon demands, glaring at Ryan. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Ryan stares down at his hands, fingers linked together tightly in his lap, and says nothing. Brendon starts the engine but the car remains stationary. Ryan hears Brendon shift weight several times as seconds tick by. After a couple of minutes Brendon sighs. “Why?” His voice is quiet, serious, and he twists sideways in his seat to lean closer to Ryan. “Does he have something on you?”

A deep shudder travels up Ryan’s spine and he clenches his hands even more tightly around one another in an effort to keep them from trembling. Brendon picks up on this immediately, however, and his expression darkens. “What did he do, Ryan?”

“Don’t,” Ryan bites out, face still turned away from Brendon’s. “Just don’t. Okay? Please. Just take me home.”

Brendon sits back in his seat. “Ryan, come on. Whatever he’s holding over you, it’s not worth… Please, talk to me.”

“I don’t want to.” Ryan stares out the window, watching the wind bend the branches of small trees along the edge of the parking lot. “Please take me home.”

Brendon exhales slowly, but turns frontward in his seat and drops the parking brake. The car starts to move and Ryan watches the road blur beneath them as they pull out of the parking lot.

“I don’t care if you don’t want to tell me,” Brendon says after a few minutes. “I get it. It’s fine. I’m practically a stranger at this point, you have no reason to tell me anything. But… you gotta know I can’t just walk away from this.” After a short pause, during which Ryan makes no interjection, he glances over at Ryan before returning his eyes to the road. “When was the last time you slept? Or had something to eat?”

Ryan doesn’t reply. He feels sick to his stomach and he wishes Brendon would just shut up, drop him off at home, and forget this encounter ever took place.

“Ryan.” Brendon looks over again as they pull up to a red light. “At least tell me if it’s safe to take you home. I… if he’s going to be there…”

Ryan’s jaw clenches. Of course Shane was going to be there. He might already be there, waiting for Ryan to walk back through the door. If not maybe he’d storm in the next morning, or yank Ryan from his bed in the middle of the night. But he can’t tell Brendon any of that, he’d never let Ryan back inside the house.

“It’s fine,” he mumbles. “I’ll be fine.”

They pull up in front of his house and Ryan reaches for the door. He jumps and pauses when he feels Brendon’s hand on his shoulder. He turns and meets the other man’s gaze.

“I want to help you,” Brendon whispers. “I get that you may not want my help and you don’t really have a reason to trust me after all this time, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to just walk away from this.”

Ryan doesn’t say anything, just soaks in the warm, affectionate concern in Brendon’s dark eyes. He suddenly feels the overwhelming urge to just start bawling, and he blinks several times to keep the tears from spilling over. Brendon moves his hand from Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan feels the absence of its warmth more strongly than he should have and shivers.

“Get some rest, okay?” Brendon says. “Lock the doors, put your phone on the charger, go to sleep, and call me when you wake up. Promise me.”

Ryan forces himself to nod, though truth be told he still can’t remember where his phone has gotten off to, or if it’s even still in his possession. He tears his gaze away from Brendon’s and steps out of the car. He forces himself not to look back as he climbs the front porch steps, exhausted by the time his hand touches the doorknob. The door swings open without protest, still unlocked from their exit earlier. It clicks shut behind him and he leans against the wood, listening to the sound of Brendon’s car driving away.

He hears a small whine from near his feet and looks down. Dottie blinks up at him, looking as bewildered as a member of the canine species is able. Some of the tension eases out of his shoulders and he bends down to scratch behind her ears.

“Hey, Dot,” he said softly. “Sorry about that, girl. It’s all right now. It’s going to be all right.”

She tilts her head back in response, enjoying the caress, her tongue lolling out of her open mouth. Ryan feels his heart rate slow a bit. The fact that Dottie isn’t growling in the corner is good; it means Shane isn’t here. He reaches behind him and turns the lock, even though he knows there’s not much point to it.

Dottie follows him into the kitchen, lingering at the threshold while he surveys the mess of broken glass and blood that litters the floor. He steps carefully around it to grab a tin of dog food off the pantry shelf. He pops the lid off and sets it on the floor, then with slow movements picks up Dottie’s water bowl and fills it up.

Despite his dog’s cheerful demeanor, Ryan still can’t suppress the shiver that creeps up his spine as he tiptoes into the bedroom and pushes the door open. It creaks, and he waits until the sound stops and all he can hear is his own breathing in the darkness before flicking on the light. He blinks at the sudden fluorescence, his eyes darting around the room, scoping its corners and crevices in time with the heavy pulsing of his heartbeat. Nothing. Feeling childish, he kneels and peeks beneath the bed, then inside the closet, then the bathroom. Still nothing.

He leans over the bathroom sink, splashing cool water in his face. His reflection stares back at him with dead eyes as he leans against the counter, limbs heavy with exhaustion and anxiety. Brendon’s right, he thinks; he looks horrible. His skin is as pale as a sheet of paper, save for the black and purple bruising along his jaw and neck and arms, the pale pink scarring that lines his forearms joined now by jagged red lines broken up by dark navy stitching.

His knees start to shake and he sinks to the floor, hugging his legs to his chest. How could he have let it get to this point? How could he just let this happen, let himself become a broken shell of a man whose own home could no longer be considered a safe place, whose every move could be controlled with a shout or a shove?

It’s pathetic.

 _He’s_ pathetic.

Dottie noses her way through the crack in the bathroom door and pads over to where he sits. She whines up at him, tongue swiping across his fingers.

“Hey,” Ryan murmurs back, giving her a few gentle pats. With a short sigh, he climbs to his feet, gripping the edge of the countertop of support. Dottie follows him into the bedroom and watches him shut the door and turn on the bedside lamp before shutting off the overhead. He scoops Dottie into his thin arms, allowing her to curl up at the foot of the bed before climbing beneath the unmade covers.

He’s tired, he’s so tired. He can’t remember ever being as tired as he is right now, even on tour. He shifts his limbs about for a few seconds before giving up on finding a comfortable sleeping position. Every part of him aches from either dulled and half-healed or fresh and sharp pain.

Still, he is so tired.

He thinks briefly about his promise to Brendon, realizing he hasn’t even attempted to find his phone. He’ll have to do that in the morning. He is so, so tired.

-

He wakes up with a start, as has become custom, but he does so of his own accord, without being dragged from his bed in the middle of the night or shouted awake. He’s almost surprised, but relieved all the same, when all his sleep-heavy eyes see nothing other than Dottie curled up next to him and sunlight struggling to make its way through closed blinds. He’s shocked when the clock informs him he’s been asleep for nearly twelve hours. Dottie feels him moving and sits up, tail flicking up and down. He gives her a few drowsy scratches and slips out of bed.

His relief is replaced by a cold, heavy feeling of dread as soon as he steps outside his bedroom and sees Shane seated on the living room couch. His hands are folded neatly over his crossed legs. He looks eerily calm, almost pleasant even, as if he’s been waiting for the arrival of an old friend at the airport or a nice restaurant. Ryan isn’t fooled, however, and his hand grips the doorframe as Shane unfolds himself from the sofa.

“I was wondering when you were gonna get up.”

Ryan is already trembling. He casts his eyes downward at Shane’s approaching feet and says nothing as he waits for the inevitable.

Shane reaches out and grips Ryan’s chin, forcing his gaze upward again. “What did you tell him?” he growls.

Ryan’s lower lip quivers. “Nothing,” he whispers.

Shane scoffs, his fingernails digging into Ryan’s cheeks. “Yeah, like I believe that. You’ve never been able to resist precious little Brenny-boo, have you?” Ryan’s face flushes, and Shane smirks. “That’s what I thought.”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Ryan insists, hating the way his voice shifts into a pitiful whimper. “I swear.”

“Mhmm. Right.” Shane releases Ryan’s chin, grabbing a fistful of his hair instead and dragging him toward the center of the living room. “And you didn’t let him call the cops, either? Didn’t answer all the hospital’s pesky questions?”

“N-No!”

“Because you know what happens if you did, Ross.” Shane gives him a rough shove, eliciting a sharp cry from Ryan as he stumbles and drops to his knees, the side of his face banging against the coffee table as he falls. He lies on the floor for several seconds, stunned, before the sharp stab of pain in his temples registers and he brings a hand to the side of his face. His fingers come away wet with blood.

He yelps as Shane kicks him in the stomach, his legs curling toward his torso out of reflex. Shane grips handfuls of Ryan’s shirt and hauls him off the floor. Ryan struggles to catch his breath as he is propelled to the other side of the room, behind the sofa. Shane pushes him forward, bending him over the back of the couch. Ryan feels tears, the ones he’s been holding back since Brendon left, finally spilling out from behind his eyes. He starts to struggle, whimpering pitifully at the feel of Shane’s rough hands fumbling with the waist of his jeans.

“I didn’t tell them,” he chokes out, fingers clawing desperately at the fabric surrounding him. “Please…”

Shane replies by gripping the back of Ryan’s head and shoving his face into the cushions. “Good. This can be a reminder of what happens if you do.”

Ryan’s sobs are muffled but Shane still hears them and laughs, yanking Ryan’s pants to his ankles in one smooth motion. “Oh, come on, RyRo,” he taunts. He shoves two fingers inside of Ryan, sick enjoyment spreading over his face when Ryan jerks and shudders in response. “Don’t pretend you don’t just _love_ a good fucking.” He watches Ryan squirm for several moments, still holding the other man’s body in place against the couch with one strong arm, then removes his fingers. He unbuttons his own pants and lines himself up, drawing out the moment as long as he can while Ryan trembles before him, completely at his mercy.

He pushes into Ryan with a sickening moan of pleasure, thrusting faster when Ryan screams in pain, his fingers curling around the edge of the sofa.

“Take it,” he pants, bending down so his mouth is right next to Ryan’s ear. “Take it, fucking whore. I own you. Got it? I fucking _own_ you.”

Ryan wishes he were dead.


	2. PART 2

**PART 2**

Brendon waits all day for Ryan to call. He gets absolutely nothing useful done, spending the first two hours after waking up flipping through TV channels with disinterest, then a couple playing lazily with his dogs. He checks his phone every five minutes, making sure the volume is turned all the way up. Around three he decides he’s waited long enough and calls Ryan. The call goes straight to voicemail.

He tries to reason with the churning in his gut, telling himself Ryan probably forgot to plug in his phone, or maybe he’s still asleep even, seeing as he literally looked like death was knocking at his door the day before. He can’t keep barging into Ryan’s house demanding answers, not if he wants to regain his trust. And this, the re-earning of Ryan’s trust, has quite suddenly become the only thing upon which Brendon can focus his attention.

So he waits. He dicks around on the piano for a while, trying to distract himself, but by the time five o’clock rolls around he can’t contain his worry any longer. He grabs his keys and hops in the car, no longer thinking about the consequences of invading Ryan’s personal space again.

He drives as fast as he can to Ryan’s place, a loud string of curses flying from his lips every time he is forced to stop at a red light. He takes the porch steps in two quick leaps, fist pounding louder than he means it to against the front door.

“Ryan,” he calls, trying to keep his voice calm. “Ryan, it’s Brendon.”

He waits for almost a full minute. Nothing happens. “Ryan,” he says, a little louder this time, “I know you’re in there. Please open the door.”

Still nothing. He sighs, growing frustrated. He tries the doorknob and finds it locked. “Ryan, I’m sorry, but if you don’t come to the door I’m calling the cops.”

He feels bad as soon as the words leave his mouth, but he finally hears the shuffling of feet from inside, and a few seconds later the door unlocks and eases open enough to reveal Ryan’s face. There’s an angry gash stretched from cheekbone to eyebrow next to his left eye, and dark bruising has bloomed around his right. His bottom lip is split down the middle. Brendon clenches his jaw, torn between sickness and rage. “Ryan, what the hell…” He shakes his head. “He was here. He came back. Jesus, Ry…”

Ryan blinks back at him, expression blank. “You should leave.”

“Wait.” Brendon sticks his foot in the door, catching it before Ryan can push it shut. Ryan immediately backs away from the threshold, shoulders stiff with defensiveness. Brendon bites his lip, realizing his mistake. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please let me come in.”

Ryan stares down at his feet, arms crossed over his chest, and says nothing. Taking this as a sign of permission, Brendon slips through the door, pushing it shut behind him. He turns to secure the lock and frowns, gaze traveling up and down the doorframe. “Ryan. Why is it just this one lock? Why don’t you have a deadbolt at the top?”

“He took it off,” Ryan mutters.

Brendon turns back to face him, horror twisting his features. “He has a key, doesn’t he?”

Ryan doesn’t answer, or meet Brendon’s eyes. Brendon trails after him through the living room, watching as he moves first toward the couch, then stops, some sort of darkness gleaming in his eyes before he spins on his heel and steps into the kitchen instead. Brendon takes in the glass and blood that still litters the floor from the day before. Ryan grips the edge of the kitchen counter, leaning forward so that his forehead rests against a cabinet door.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Ryan mumbles, words almost too low for Brendon to make out.

“You didn’t call,” Brendon counters. His fingers are curled into fists inside his pockets. He keeps having to will himself calm so he doesn’t fly into a fit of anger and upset. “I was worried. Apparently for good reason.”

Ryan shakes his head. “You can’t… I can’t…”

“Ryan.” Brendon’s voice cracks. He takes a step toward the other man. “I can’t just let this happen. I can’t. Please let me help you. Please.” He’s literally begging, pleading. Ryan’s chin quivers. Brendon takes another step forward. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. You can trust me. I swear on my fucking _life_ , you can.”

Ryan squeezes his eyes shut. “He has… videos.”

Brendon can taste the bile bubbling in his stomach, praying Ryan means something other than what his mind immediately assumes. “Videos… of what?”

Ryan sucks in a deep breath. “It was just the hitting at first,” he says, voice emotionless. He stares blankly at the dark wood of the cabinet in front of him. “Punching, shoving, kicking. He’d get drunk. Then mad. I’d be close enough for him to take it out on me.” He swallows, and Brendon sees his body start to shake. “He started trying to… control me, my music. He wanted to make money. He decided he was my manager and started interacting with people online who follow my accounts. He’d pretend he was me on there sometimes. He came over one day and tried to force me to set up a release of something he’d caught me working on. I said no.”

He pauses here, and Brendon realizes he’s been holding his breath. He exhales, eyes never leaving Ryan’s face.

“He hit me,” Ryan continues. “Pushed me down. I hit my head against the wall. Blacked out. When I woke up I was tied to the bed.” He hesitates. “Naked.”

Brendon has begun to cry, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. Ryan’s eyes are still shut tight as he stands hunched over the kitchen counter. “He filmed it. He raped me and he filmed it.”

“Ryan,” Brendon whispers.

“If I tell the cops, press charges, he’ll… release them. Put them online. Sell them. Whatever. And I… I c-can’t… I can’t…” He shakes his head, the motion becoming frantic and his body’s trembling turning into violent tremors. He buries his face in his palms and starts crying, the tears quickly turning to heavy weeping.

Brendon can’t take the other boy’s pain any longer. He crosses the rest of the distance separating them and wraps his arms around Ryan’s bony shoulders. Ryan leans into his chest, racked with uncontrollable sobs. Brendon rubs his hand in small circles along Ryan’s back and just holds him, just lets him cry. Ryan hasn’t cried like this in months, not since the day Shane made the video. After that it was like his mind just shut down, refusing to let him fully process all of the hideous things that were happening to him.

Brendon holds him until his sobs subside and he pulls away, rubbing his hands over his face. Sniffling, he leans over the sink, staring down at the drain. Brendon bites his lip, unable to look away from Ryan’s flushed, tear-streaked face.

“Ryan,” he starts, his tone cautious, “This has to stop. It has to.”

Ryan shakes his head. “I can’t. He’ll… I can’t.”

“Ryan.” He reaches out slips his fingers through Ryan’s. “Trust me. Please.”

Ryan looks up at him, eyes glossy. “I shouldn’t.”

Brendon bites his lip. “Can you… do it anyway?”

Ryan looks away, lower lip trembling. “I-I… I’m scared,” he admits, his voice cracking.

Brendon has to count backward from ten to keep another deluge of tears behind his eyes. “I know. I know. I promise, I swear to god, if you trust me I will keep you safe.”

Ryan is shaking now more than ever, and every part of him is screaming, warning him against what he’s about to do, but he gives a small jerk of a nod. A tiny smile of relief spreads across Brendon’s face, and Ryan feels some of the fear leave his chest as Brendon squeezes his hand. “Okay. Pack a bag and we’ll go back to my place.”

Ryan blinks back at him. “W-What?”

“You’re not safe here, and Shane doesn’t know where I live.” He shrugs like it’s a no-brainer, his expression softening when he sees the uncertainty in Ryan’s eyes. “I have a guest room, Ry. And lots of locks on all the doors.”

A soft blush spreads across Ryan’s cheeks at the familiar shortening of his name. “Y-Yeah, I…” He glances around the room, running his hands through his mussed hair. “I can’t leave Dot here all alone.”

 “So… bring her?” Brendon raises his eyebrows at the surprise in Ryan’s expression. “What, did you think it’d be a problem? You know I love dogs. As long as she’s not gonna like, eat my dogs, or anything.”

Which is how, half an hour later, Ryan finds himself once more in the passenger seat of Brendon Urie’s car, this time with Dottie perched in his lap and his duffel bag in the back. He runs his fingers continuously through his dog’s fur to keep his hands from shaking. Trying to distract himself from the enormous risk he still feels he’s taking, he starts sneaking long glances at Brendon from behind his wide-rimmed sunglasses. The sun is high in the sky and its light cascades across the younger man’s face. Before he can stop himself Ryan drinks in the sight like a parched traveler in a desert sandstorm.

This is dangerous, not just trying to outmaneuver Shane’s blackmail, but doing so with the one person who always manages to twist his insides into a dizzy wreck when he’s least ready for it. But at this point it doesn’t feel like he has a choice, if not because he can finally admit to himself how ill-equipped he is to take any further abuse, then because now that he is here, wind from the cracked windows ruffling through his and Brendon’s hair and a determined, protective gleam developed in the corners of Brendon’s eyes, he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

Brendon slings the strap of Ryan’s bag over one shoulder before Ryan can even get out of the car. They go inside, Brendon slowing his pace to match Ryan’s slow, pain-addled movements. Ryan can feel Brendon watching to make sure he doesn’t take a sudden fall. He can’t decide if this makes him feel uncomfortable or bashful so he settles on both.

Brendon’s dogs get excited as soon as they see Dottie cradled in Ryan’s arms, running in circles around his ankles and snorting out small yips of enthusiasm. Dottie squirms to get down, and Ryan looks to Brendon for a nod of reassurance before lowering her to the floor. They watch as cautious sniffs are exchanged before Brendon’s pups take off across the living room, Dottie huffing under her breath before scrambling after on her short legs.

Brendon chuckles, the sound clinking like little pebbles against Ryan’s ears. “See? Looks like they’ll be okay.” He shifts Ryan’s bag to his other shoulder. Ryan flushes, reaching out to take it, but Brendon waves him off. “Here, let me show you the guest room.”

He follows Brendon to the top of the stairs. The hallway is a pleasant shade of deep blue, lined alternatingly with small windows and framed pictures. Ryan stops short when he sees the album cover of _pretty.odd._ gleaming back at him from behind one of the glass panels. Brendon hears the absence of his footsteps and glances over his shoulder. Ryan sees from the corners of his eyes the discomfort that creeps over Brendon’s visage, and he quickly lowers his gaze to the floor and hugs his arms to his chest.

They stand like this for an incredibly tense second before Brendon clears his throat. “So, uh, that’s my room.” He gestures to the open doorway they’ve just walked past, through which Ryan can glimpse unmade white bedcovers. “And then this is the guest room, there’s not an adjoining bathroom but there’s one right there at the end of the hall…” He pushes open the next door on the opposite side of the hallway and steps inside.

Ryan peeks in after him, taking in the dark green bedspread neatly made up over plump pillows, the large windows through which sunlight freely streams, the pale eggshell shade of the walls. Brendon drops Ryan’s bag on the bed. Ryan quickly moves out of his way as Brendon walks back through the doorway. Brendon casts him a perplexed glance and Ryan blushes, ducking his head and shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

“Do you want to… take a shower, or anything?” Brendon asks, his voice gentle.

Ryan stares down at his feet. “I showered before you came over,” he mumbles. The blurry scene replays itself in his mind; Shane finally releasing him, Ryan not daring to move until he hears receding footsteps and a slam of the front door, forcing himself to crawl into the bathroom where he sits hunched beneath the shower’s stream until the scorching water turns to ice.

Brendon seems to sense his uneasiness. “Okay. I’ll make you something to eat then.”

Ryan just nods, and trails after Brendon back down to the kitchen. The first story of the house is an open floor plan and Ryan can see the dogs wrestling over a ragged stuffed animal in the living area from the foot of the stairs.

Brendon starts to remove pans and cooking utensils from cabinets. Ryan takes a moment to take in his surroundings, his eyes pausing on the large white grand piano in the far corner of the room. Brendon follows his gaze.

“You can play, if you want. Feel free to play anything in the house.”

Ryan feels warmth returning to his cheeks and he takes a seat at one of the stools next to the breakfast bar. Brendon pretends not to notice him carefully arranging his limbs into the least painful position.

After a few minutes the aroma of whatever Brendon is cooking starts to waft up from the frying pan in front of him. Ryan feels the sharp pang of hunger that follows like a knife in his gut and winces. He smooths one hand over his abdomen, thankful that Brendon’s back is still turned, and then folds his palms over the marble countertop.

“Where’s Sarah?” he hears himself asking. He’s not even sure why he says it, and his own fingers curl around one another as he does. He sees the subtle rise of Brendon’s shoulders, the stiffening of muscles around his neck, and he knows he’s hit a nerve.

“Sarah doesn’t live here anymore,” is Brendon’s simple reply. Ryan stares down at his clasped hands, deciding it’s probably best that he stays as silent as possible from here on out.

The slamming of the front door echoes down the foyer and through the kitchen, and Ryan nearly jumps out of his chair. His eyes, stretched wide with fear, flick to Brendon’s turned back, but the other man seems unbothered, and the sizzling of food on a skillet continues.

“Hey Brendon, have you seen my—” The words stop as a large figure steps into sight, and Ryan’s knuckles turn as white as the piano in the corner as he grips the countertop.

“It’s in the music room, Zack,” Brendon says, not even looking up from the stove. “You took it off the other night after bitching about how your wrist was chafing for two hours.”

Zack doesn’t seem to be listening as he stares, shell-shocked, at Ryan’s paled face. “Uh… what?”

“Your watch? Isn’t that why…” Brendon finally looks up. “Oh. Yeah. Ryan’s here. Say hi.”

“Uh… hi?” Zack shifts weight from one foot to the other. Ryan has averted his gaze by now, back down to the countertop, where one of his index fingers is tap-tap-tapping against the granite in time with his nervous pulse.

Brendon flips off the front burner. “Your watch is in the music room,” he repeats, as he sets a plate down in front of Ryan. There’s a seasoned chicken breast, a small array of sliced peppers, and Spanish rice with some tomatoes mixed in. The scent fills Ryan’s nostrils and his stomach contracts again. He glances nervously back at Zack, who is still standing dumbfounded in the doorway.

Brendon sighs. “Zack, why don’t we go to the music room and find your watch?” he asks pointedly. He holds a fork and knife out to Ryan, who hesitates before curling his fingers around their handles. “Eat,” Brendon says, with a curt nod toward the plate. He gives Zack’s shoulder a light smack and whatever trance of shock Zack is in seems to be broken and he hurries out of the room behind Brendon.

Ryan waits a moment before picking up the utensils and cutting into the chicken breast. The food is warm in his stomach and it almost hurts when it fills the space he has left carelessly void for far too long. It’s almost uncomfortable, the new contrast between empty and not empty, but he has realized how ravenous he is and forces himself to keep bringing the fork to his lips.

He pauses when he realizes he can hear Brendon and Zack’s hushed conversation from the other room. “Why is he _staying_ _here_ , though?” Zack is demanding. His voice is angry. Ryan’s fingers clench around the fork.

“Look, I can’t explain this to you right now, okay? Just leave it alone and stop acting so weird, for chrissakes, you’re freaking him out.”

“And what the fuck is with him anyway? He looked like he’d seen a fucking ghost when I walked in—”

“Zack, seriously. I’m asking you to leave it alone.”

There’s a long pause. Ryan pictures the two men staring each other down, equally stubborn expressions painted across their faces.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing this time.” Zack’s voice is so low, Ryan has to strain to hear. “After it took you so long to—”

“Zack.” Brendon’s teeth are gritted, Ryan can tell. “It’s…” He sighs. “It’s not like that, okay? I’m just… he’s… Christ, just… just let me handle it, okay? I’m handling it. It’s fine. I need you to not be a jackass about this.”

“Yeah, okay. Okay.” Ryan fumbles with the fork, trying to look disengaged as Brendon and Zack step back into the room. Brendon bends down to wrestle a toy away from the dogs before whipping it back across the room. He smiles at the frenzy this stirs up before looking over at Ryan, his eyes immediately traveling down to the plate of food. His smile widens just a touch when he sees its partial emptiness. Ryan tries not to think about how odd it is for a person to grow cheerful over the mere fact that someone else is willing to consume a plate of food.

“Well, um, I’m gonna go, then,” Zack says gruffly. “Nice to, ah, see you again, Ryan.” He ducks out before Ryan can react, and Brendon follows him to the front door. Ryan doesn’t relax until he hears the key turn in the lock, followed by the clicking of a deadbolt.

Ryan is pushing the last bits of food in circles around the plate when Brendon steps back in. “Sorry about that.” He perches on the arm of one of the couches. “He’s just… well. Zack. You know.”

Ryan puts the fork down and lowers his hands to his lap. He doesn’t respond, just watches Brendon bend forward and extends one hand as Dottie shuffles near. To Ryan’s surprise, she lets him scratch along the top of her head.

“So I have to go to the studio to take care of some things,” Brendon says suddenly, breaking the silence that has fallen back over them. “Are you good to stay here? It should only be a couple of hours.”

Ryan nods, watching the dogs play so he doesn’t have to meet Brendon’s gaze. Brendon stands up and moves to the doorway, lingering there hesitantly for several seconds.

“The landline still works,” he says. “I never use it and I don’t think the ringer volume is even turned up, but it still works. If you need the phone, for any reason. I mean, I assume you still don’t have yours.”

Ryan shakes his head.

“Okay. Well. It works. Just so you know. Oh, I’ll write my number down, I guess, uh… here.” He rips a paper towel off the rack and grabs a pen from the small drawer in the kitchen island. Quickly scribbling a row of digits, he slaps a refrigerator magnet over the scrap to hold it up against the steel surface. “There. Again, you know, you shouldn’t have anything to worry about, I’m not saying that, just… if you need it. Yeah. There it is. Yeah?”

He looks back at Ryan, and Ryan feels like a reply is expected so he nods, mutters “okay” under his breath.

Brendon combs his fingers through his hair, chewing on his lower lip. “Okay. I’ll be back soon.”

Ryan nods again, because Brendon is lingering, and Brendon finally steps out of the room. A few seconds later Ryan hears the door open and shut, the lock sliding back into place, and the quiet hum of Brendon’s car as it backs out of the driveway. He sighs and slides off the bar stool, sidestepping the dogs to cross the room.

He curls up at the far end of one of the couches, where he can split his gaze between the front and back doors. He feels a bit silly, just sitting here idly without anything else to occupy his attention, but he feels as though he’s got nothing else to do but sit and wait.

So he sits, and he waits.

-

Brendon isn’t going to the studio.

He feels bad for lying. It feels more wrong than it ought to, dirty even, considering the circumstances. He doesn’t feel as if he has a choice, though, because Ryan would never be okay with what he’s about to do.

He doesn’t think about it, he just drives, just lets the wind whip through the open windows and turns up whatever song is playing over the radio and drives. He hopes to himself, as he parks on the corner of a street he hasn’t been down in some time, that Shane hasn’t moved in the last five years. If he has, that’s going to throw a bit of a wrench in his plans.

The squat, hunter green bungalow stands exactly as he remembers it. Even the ugly, decades-old garden gnome still sits in the same place next to the stairs. Brendon glances up and down the street before making his way up the side of the driveway, staying close to the wooden fence separating the property from the yard next door, where low-hanging branches and ivy cast shadows over him in the afternoon sun.

There’s no car parked in the driveway, and when he stands on his toes and peeks through the tiny tinted windows in the garage door all that he sees inside is clutter. He slips around the back of the house and up the back porch steps. The patio door is locked, as he expects. After sneaking a quick peek through the kitchen window to make sure no one is inside, he tests the frame, pushing upward with the heels of his hands. To his surprise, the glass pane slides up with ease. There isn’t even a screen over the opening. He grabs a rickety plastic lawn chair that looks like it hasn’t been sat in since the nineties and pushes it up against the wall.

He steps up onto the seat of the chair, feeling the plastic cave in a bit beneath his feet, and pushes his upper body through the window, catching himself on the edge of the sink. With some difficulty, he pulls his legs up to his torso so that he is half-crouched, half spread-eagle over the sink. Feeling ridiculous, he hops to the floor, landing clumsily in an ungraceful squat. He pauses, listening for signs of a reaction, but the house is quiet. Standing and tugging the hem of his shirt back into place, he glances around. The kitchen looks the same as he remembers, albeit much dirtier and littered with glass bottles and various other litter. He feels at this point that it is safe to assume Shane Morris still lives in this house.

His movements are quiet and cautious as he steps through the house, still worried that Shane might be lurking about somewhere out of sight. The living room is a total wreck that he has no desire to sort through so he keeps moving down the narrow hallway. He hesitates for just a moment before pushing the cracked door at the end of it fully open. Shane’s bedroom is not much cleaner than any of the other rooms in the house, but he feels like he has a better chance of finding what he’s looking for in here.

He starts opening dresser drawers, careful to pull his hand up inside the sleeve of his hoodie whenever he touches anything so as to not leave fingerprints behind. Finding nothing but a disarray of unfolded clothes, he tries the desk next. Immediately after pulling open the top drawer, he spies a somewhat crumpled manila envelope stuffed in the back behind piles of paper scraps and office supplies. He grabs one corner and pulls it out, feeling the weight and shape of CDs plus something small and square inside. When he dumps the contents onto the desk he finds several discs and a tape from a camcorder, all labeled “Ryan” in thick black marker.

Brendon’s stomach twists into a knot. He picks up one of the CDs and wakes up Shane’s laptop. It doesn’t ask for a password, just brings up the desktop, so he pops the CD into the machine and perches on the edge of Shane’s desk chair. He doesn’t want to watch what is on this disc, not one bit, but at the same time, part of him has to know. He holds his breath as a media player window pops up and finishes buffering.

_Ryan lies spread-eagle across the top of his bed, completely naked. His wrists and ankles are each tied to one of the four bedposts with one of his old scarves. One of his wool ties has been knotted in the center and stuck in his mouth, wrapped and tied around the back of his head to serve as a gag. His eyes are closed but he is starting to stir. His features shift from a state of disorientation to fear and panic as he realizes his current state, and he jerks against his bindings, a frantic whine rising from deep in his throat._

_Shane laughs from somewhere in the background, and Ryan cowers at the sound, his entire body shaking. “Looks like someone’s finally awake! Morning, sunshine.” Half of Shane’s body enters the frame as he steps up next to the bed. He trails his hands over Ryan’s bare back, Ryan quaking and flinching away from the touch._

_“It’s time for you to learn a very important lesson,” Shane hisses, just loudly enough for the camera to pick up. Ryan whimpers and shakes his head, straining against his bindings to no avail. Shane’s fingers twine through Ryan’s hair and yank his head back. “Show everyone your pretty face, RyRo!” He forces Ryan to turn toward the camera. Utter terror paints his pale visage and frightened tears spill down his cheeks. A deep, haunted despair gleams in his eyes, just brightly enough to be picked up by the camera lens._

_Shane cackles and releases his grip, climbing up onto the bed and straddling Ryan’s trembling form. Ryan is sobbing now, his cries muffled behind the wool in his mouth. Shane spits into his right hand a couple of times before pushing two fingers into Ryan as far as they will go._

_Ryan’s sobs turn to a muted scream and his entire body lurches forward in an effort to escape the assault. Shane gives another bark of laughter, scissoring and twisting his fingers so that Ryan continues to squirm. He grows bored of this quickly and removes his hand, fumbling with the waist of his jeans. Ryan buries his face in the folds of his bedcovers, shoulders shaking with violent, stifled sobs._

_Shane’s first thrust is anything but gentle, and Ryan’s resulting scream of pain can be heard almost at full volume even from behind the gag. Shane’s hands grip Ryan’s hips, fingernails digging in until blood pools up around them._

_“What’s wrong, Ross?” Shane taunts with another vicious thrust. “Thought you’d be used to the feeling of having a dick up your ass after being Brendon Urie’s bitch for four years!”_

_Ryan’s hands curl into tight fists at these words, and he groans as Shane quickens his thrusts. Shane cackles. “Yeah, that’s right Ross, moan for me, you fucking whore.” He grabs a handful of Ryan’s mousey locks again, pulling the other boy’s head back and leaning down so that his mouth is close to Ryan’s ear. “This is what happens when you say no, bitch.”_

Brendon can’t watch any longer, his fist smashing against the spacebar before he realizes what he’s doing. Ryan’s eyes stay frozen on the screen, still filled with tears but now with a faraway, deadened look in them. Brendon clicks out of the window and the image disappears, but the sick feeling in his stomach remains. He rubs the back of his arm across his cheeks to soak up the tears that have rolled down them. With shaking hands, he removes the disc from the computer and drops it back into the envelope, along with the other two CDs and the camcorder tape. He glances around as he leaves to make sure the house looks the same as when he entered, hoping when Shane returns he won’t notice the missing evidence until it is too late.

-

After about an hour, Ryan Ross gets bored.

It’s almost a foreign concept to him at this point, boredom, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with the sensation of it. He starts to fidget his fingers and glance about the room and eventually he stands and creeps over to where the piano patiently awaits his arrival.

He sits, movements ginger, and his fingertips brush against the ivory keys. It’s been so long, too long, since he had the chance to play a real piano. Ryan hardly considers himself a pianist, but a familiar rush of warmth and comfort fills his chest all the same at the feel of the magnificent instrument beneath his fingers. He plays a few light notes, listening to them ring pleasantly through the quiet room. The curve of his lips is not quite a smile, but it is the closest he’s gotten to one in a very long time.

So he plays. He plays what he can remember from old Panic songs, picking out the familiar melodies from Behind the Sea, When the Day Met the Night, Do You Know What I’m Seeing, and – though he hesitates for several seconds before his fingers agree to find the tune – Northern Downpour. His insides have swelled with a crushing fullness of emotion by the time he gets through this one and he transitions without pause into Lonely Moonlight. After the first iteration of verse and chorus his voice, quiet and raspy and wavering from lack of use, rises to accompany the song, and he sings:

 _Someone I love, loves someone else_  
_Another day I lost, all by myself_  
_I wandered through the sunshine_  
_Remembering when you were mine_  
_Lonely moonlight, lonely moonlight_  
_When I had a younger heart_  
_You told me not to fear the dark  
__Lonely moonlight, lonely moonlight_  

He plays through the outro, his fingers steadier and posture surer than either have been in ages. When he finishes he sits back and lets his hands drop to his lap. He sits like this for several seconds in the silence, staring down at the piano like it might give him some sort of opinion of the things it’s just heard.

“Ryan.”

Ryan jumps, leaping up from where he sits and whirling around. His heart continues racing even when he sees Brendon standing in the doorway, and his hands have raised themselves defensively of their own accord to ward off the blows his instincts threaten him with. Brendon sees this and winces.

“Sorry, sorry. I was trying not to startle you, but…” Brendon bites his lip. Ryan lowers his arms, his face flushing with embarrassment.

“How long were you…”

“Since Northern Downpour.” Ryan notices suddenly that Brendon’s eyes are wet beyond the point of regular hydration and he turns away, twisting his fingers together nervously. He perches on the edge of the couch, eyes cast downward. Brendon hesitates before walking over and dropping down beside him, careful not to sit too close.

“Did you write the one you just played?” Brendon asks, his voice soft. Ryan nods, still not meeting his gaze. “Is that the one that…” He falters, unsure of whether he ought to finish the question. Ryan nods again, chewing on his lower lip. Brendon is silent for several long seconds, until he whispers:

“I need to tell you why Sarah left.”

Startled, Ryan finally glances up at the other man, whose eyes are still gleaming with raw emotion. “W-What?”

“She made a joke one day, while we were just sitting around in here.” Brendon is rushing to get the words out, like he might lose his nerve if he doesn’t. “She said, uh, she said she wished I would look at her all the time like I used to look at you onstage. Or something. It was, um, because of a periscope I’d been doing that day, a question someone asked, I guess, I don’t know.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t, uh, I didn’t laugh. So then she stopped laughing, and…”

Ryan is holding his breath. He’s had to look away, he can’t stand to be looking at Brendon’s face while he hears these words. His fingers are wrapped tightly around one another in his lap to keep themselves safe from violent shaking. Brendon clears his throat a few more times before continuing.

“I don’t really know, to be honest, how it escalated to the point that it did, but we ended up having a huge fight about it because, well. I’d never really told her… the truth about, um, about us.” Ryan feels Brendon watching for his reaction but he feels like he’s been frozen in place and can’t do anything except sit stone cold still and listen to Brendon’s words. “It got heated, you know, we can both kind of be hotheads about things, and um… she basically asked me if all of the doubts she’d been having about, ah, about our relationship, if they were all based on… on me not being completely over you, and I didn’t really say anything at first, and she was like, ‘okay, if he walked through the front door right now and asked to be with you, who would you choose?’ and I…”

He trails off, doesn’t speak for a moment. Ryan can’t breathe.

“She left that night.” Brendon sits back, slides his hands up and down across the thick fabric of his jeans. “That was about two months ago.”

Ryan releases a shuddering exhale and rubs his trembling hands over his face. “Why are you telling me this?” he murmurs, voice muffled behind his palms. “I-I… I don’t…” He shakes his head helplessly. He can’t do this right now, he really doesn’t think he’s capable, not when the feeling of sitting here next to Brendon after so many years of not even laying eyes on the other man is enough to overwhelm him.

Brendon sighs. “I… wasn’t at the studio today.” Ryan hears the caution that has crept into his tone and sits up straighter, chancing a peek at the other man’s face. Brendon’s eyes are uncertain when he meets Ryan’s gaze. “I just wanted you to understand, when you see this, why I… I don’t want you to freak out, or…”

Ryan is getting scared now, unsure of what’s happening. His fingernails dig into his palms as he regards Brendon with tense apprehension. “What are you talking about?”

Brendon bites his lip and reaches inside his hoodie, where Ryan suddenly notices he’s been keeping a crumpled manila envelope tucked against his side. He turns it over in his hands, staring down at it with a somber expression, before looking back up at Ryan. “I would do anything for you, okay? I know it hasn’t always seemed like it and I know I have no right to be saying that after three years of basically proving the opposite, but I would.”

Ryan is still staring at the envelope, suffocating dread filtering into his lungs. “Brendon.” His voice, pitched high with fear, hitches on the second syllable, and it doesn’t register that this is the first time he’s uttered the other man’s name to his face in years, though the glint of faint excitement that passes through Brendon’s eyes indicates his lack of ignorance to this fact. “What is that?”

Brendon extends his hand, holding the envelope out in the space between them. “It’s… it’s the video,” he says. “The one Shane made.”

Ryan jerks away like he’s been slapped in the face and cringes against the arm of the sofa, staring at the envelope in horror. “Wh… What… y-you…”

“I broke in. He doesn’t know I have it.” Brendon’s voice is overly gentle but does nothing to soothe the violent tremors that quake through Ryan’s body. “If you turn it in to the police he’ll get arrested. He’ll go to jail. He won’t be able to hurt you anymore.”

“He’s got other copies! H-He has to, of course he’s got other… saved on his laptop, in his… H-He…” Ryan is already close to the point of hyperventilation, unable to string a full sentence together. “He’s going to see it’s gone, he’ll… oh my god, what did you do… what did you…” He’s started to cry, struggling to breathe through the flood of tears.

Brendon looks alarmed at how quickly Ryan’s gotten himself worked up and scoots closer, setting the envelope down out of sight behind him. “Ryan, hey, shh. Hey. It’s okay, come on. Hey.” He takes one of Ryan’s quivering hands and holds it between both of his. “Listen to me. If we call the cops now, he won’t have time to do anything. Once it’s in their hands, it’s over for him. You just have to make the choice.”

“I-I can’t,” Ryan sobs. He shakes his head. “I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” Brendon insists. “Hey. Look at me.” He lifts one hand to Ryan’s face, waiting for Ryan’s instinctive shudder to pass before rubbing his thumb along the other boy’s cheekbone, brushing away thick streaks of tears. “You didn’t have a choice then. You do now. You can do this.”

Ryan’s eyes flick up to meet Brendon’s. Somewhere beneath the turmoil and confusion, he realizes he sees more than just sympathy in the other man’s gaze, realizes there can only be one way Brendon knows for sure what’s in the envelope.

“You watched it.”

He’s off the couch in seconds, wrenching away from Brendon’s touch like it burns his skin. He hugs his arms to his chest, eyes stretched wide with panicked betrayal as tears continue to spill from behind them. Crestfallen, Brendon stands up as well, reaching out to him. “Ryan—”

Ryan backs away, almost tripping beneath the disarming weight of the sob that rips through him. “Y-You weren’t supposed to… no one was supposed to…”

“I’m sorry, Ryan, I’m so sorry.” Brendon’s voice is raw with desperation. “Ryan, please. I’m not going to hurt you, please calm down, please…”

Ryan shakes his head, swatting furiously at the tears clouding his vision. Every comfort, every rush of warmth, every feeling of safety he has experienced since stepping into this house has vanished, and familiar, terrifying vulnerability surges through him like a jolt of electricity. He doesn’t know what to do, can’t think straight, can’t even bear to look into Brendon’s pleading eyes knowing now that those entrancing dark orbs have witnessed firsthand the worst moments of Ryan’s life.

He turns away.

There is a clicking sound just above his temple as he does so and he freezes. His eyes flick upward with reluctance and an icy wave of fear washes over him when he finds himself face-to-face with the barrel of a gun.

“Sorry to break up this touching moment,” Shane growls, “but Ryan and I have to go.”


	3. PART 3

**PART 3**

Ryan can’t move.

He can’t think, he can’t breathe, can only stand staring into the gun pointed at his face. Brendon, however, flings himself forward before Ryan can even process what is going on and shoves himself between Ryan and Shane. His hands reach behind him and grasp Ryan by the forearms. Ryan feels himself being propelled backwards several paces, his feet obeying the motions even as the rest of his body is overtaken by violent tremors.

“Don’t make this difficult, Urie,” he hears Shane say. “I warned you about sticking that fat forehead of yours into my business.”

“Ryan isn’t your fucking business,” Brendon spits back.

“Actually, he is. And so is you breaking into my house and stealing my shit.”

Ryan’s limbs go cold. His fingers curl around the fabric of Brendon’s jacket and he leans into the other man’s backward embrace, suddenly feeling like he might collapse.

“Don’t try to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Shane snaps when Brendon doesn’t answer right away. “I saw you leaving, you dumb shit. You didn’t even notice me following you home, did you? You should be more careful if you’re going to be breaking into people’s homes and stealing from them.”

“You shouldn’t have had what I took in the first place,” Brendon growls. “And if you think I’m going to let you walk out of here with it _or_ Ryan—”

“Oh, but you are. You’re going to step aside and let me do whatever I want, because if you don’t, I’m going to put a bullet in your skull.”

Ryan’s breathing quickens, and Brendon clutches him tighter, his body rigid as a board. “Really, Shane? You want to add murder to the list of things you’re gonna go to jail for?” Brendon’s words are angry, but beginning to waver as Shane refuses to lower the gun.

“Dunno, Urie. You really wanna find out?”

“Brendon,” Ryan whimpers. “Brendon, don’t, please.” He strains against the strong arms wrapped around him, but Brendon doesn’t budge. “Brendon, it’s not worth it, j-just let him Brendon, please...”

“What’s it gonna be, Urie? Your life, or Ryan Ross?”

“Brendon!” Ryan is panicking now, struggling with all his weak might to free himself from Brendon’s grasp. “Brendon, don’t! Let me go!”

“I’m not going to let him hurt you anymore!”

Ryan buries his face against the taught muscles of Brendon’s back, a hysterical sob rising to his lips. “No, Brendon, no, no…”

“Suit yourself, Urie.”

There’s another click and then a loud, metallic bang and Brendon finally releases his grip. Ryan is screaming, his eyes shut tight because he can’t bear to look, and the air leaves his lungs and he can’t breathe and his legs give out beneath him. A pair of arms catches him before he hits the floor and he starts to sob, waiting for Shane’s fists to begin adding physical pain to the torment that rages inside of him.

But the arms wrap around him instead and it takes him several long seconds to realize through his distraught cries that his name is being repeated over and over by a low, quaking voice that he swears sounds just like Brendon’s but he doesn’t dare let himself hope, doesn’t dare open his eyes, until he feels trembling fingertips brushing the tears from his cheeks and soft lips pressing against his temple.

It’s Brendon holding onto him, Brendon saying Ryan’s name over and over with tears forming in the edges of his eyes, Brendon whose hands are shaking as they smooth through Ryan’s hair. Ryan stares back with wide eyes, thinking for a moment he must be passed out and hallucinating. Then a movement in his peripheral vision catches his attention and his gaze flicks over to where Zack is standing with a cast iron skillet in one hand and a cell phone in the other, his foot kicking the gun out of Shane’s limp grasp.

“Yeah, my friend just got attacked in his house by a crazy guy with a gun… No, I hit him with a frying pan, he’s knocked out… No, no one got shot…”

A gentle hand against Ryan’s chin turns his eyes away from where Shane lies passed out in the floor. Brendon cradles him close and Ryan accepts the embrace, his head nestling into the crook of Brendon’s neck. He tries to focus on Brendon’s fingers, carding tenderly through his hair, as his ragged breathing slows.

“It’s okay,” Brendon says softly. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

-

“You were going to die for me.”

It’s several hours later now; the cops have come and gone and taken with them their overwhelmingly exhausting questions, the packet of videotapes, and a barely-conscious Shane Morris. Zack has refused to leave Brendon and Ryan alone after what he’s just witnessed so Brendon has banished him to the garage to give Ryan some space to calm down. And once Ryan’s vision stops spinning and his heart rate returns to some semblance of a normal pace, the only thing he can focus on is how narrowly Brendon has just avoided being killed.

“You were going to die,” Ryan repeats, when Brendon does nothing except look back at him with dark, solemn eyes. “You were going to let him kill you.”

Brendon chews at his lower lip. “It wasn’t going to get that far, I knew—”

“No, you didn’t.” Ryan contradicts him before he can finish the lie. “You didn’t know when he first walked in the room that Zack would sneak in and stop him. You didn’t think at all, you just decided you were going to let yourself get killed right in front of me—”

“I couldn’t just stand there and let him take you away!”

“What did you think was going to happen once you were lying dead in the floor?” Ryan’s words have risen in volume to a near-shout, hysteria creeping back into the edges of his tone. “Did you think he’d just be satisfied with the damage he’d done and turn around and leave?”

Brendon is quiet, his shoulders slumping as the air leaves his chest in one long exhalation. “I didn’t… I didn’t think that far ahead,” he admits.

“Exactly,” Ryan snaps. “You didn’t. You didn’t think, you didn’t think at all, and I almost had to watch while you… you…” He has to stop, his voice shaking too much for him to continue. A lump has risen in his throat and he feels the sting of tears threatening to fall from his eyes. He turns away, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Ryan, I… I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

Ryan jerks away as Brendon reaches out and touches his shoulder. “Don’t,” he bites out. “Just don’t.” His voice is weary now, heavy with defeat.

Brendon’s arm drops to his side. “I’m sorry,” he says again, after a long, pained pause. “I know it was fucked up. I know that _I_ fucked up. I interfered and I made a mess. I just… I stopped being able to think about anything else besides keeping you safe.” He chews at his lower lip, waiting for Ryan to respond, but the other boy says nothing, still trying to keep the tears behind his eyelids. “I meant it,” Brendon murmurs. “When I said I’d do anything for you, I meant it.”

Ryan squeezes his eyes shut, grits his teeth. “I can’t do this,” he whispers. “N-Not… not right now. I can’t.”

Brendon doesn’t protest, doesn’t say anything as Ryan starts to climb the stairs. Dottie casts a sad look his way before scurrying after, short legs scrambling to climb each step. Brendon stays rooted in the same spot until he hears the door to the guest room click shut, then sighs and drops onto the couch behind him, watching through the living room windows as the dusk beyond them fades into dark night.

-

_“Help me… help me, Brendon, help me, please…”_

_Brendon can’t move. The sound of Ryan’s desperate pleas claw at his ears, beg for him to do something, anything, but Brendon is rooted in place, limbs held down by some invisible, impossible force. He can only watch, eyes stretched wide with horror, as right in front of him Ryan is thrown against the floor, his beseeching gaze still locked with Brendon’s as Shane climbs on top of him. The whimpering cries that follow tear through Brendon like knives. Ryan continues to utter forlorn pleas but this time his words are directed toward Shane as he begs to no avail to be released._

_Shane looks at Brendon with a cruel smile curved across his face. “This is all your fault,” he says with a maliciously knowing tone to his voice. Brendon suddenly feels the cold trickle of liquid running down his right temple and the bridge of his nose. He brings one hand to the side of his face. His fingers come away wet and sticky and red and holding a tiny silver bullet._

Brendon jerks awake, clutching handfuls of bedsheets in both fists. Bogart and Penny tilt their heads at him from the foot of the bed, watching as he swipes away the beads of sweat that have formed along his brow with one shaking hand. He reaches over and turns on the table lamp, staring down at the fingers of his right hand as if expecting them to actually be covered in blood. He can still smell it, sickly and metallic against his nostrils, so definitively falsified by his brain yet so hauntingly real that it turns his stomach and makes his head ache.

It is then that he becomes aware that though he is no longer dreaming the air is still being pierced by desolate cries, muffled by multiple layers of drywall but indisputably belonging to Ryan Ross. Brendon flings his legs over the side of the mattress and stumbles down the hallway, legs still heavy from the sleep he’s just awakened from.

Ryan cries out again and Brendon twists the doorknob of the guest room, pushing it open and peering through the darkness. As his eyes adjust to the lack of light Brendon makes out the outline of Ryan’s thin form beneath the covers, twisting and straining about so that the sheets become tangled around his arms and legs. Dottie looks up at Brendon from the floor by the foot of the bed and offers him a soft whine as Ryan whimpers again in his sleep.

A lump forms at the base of Brendon’s throat and he steps cautiously to the side of the bed.

“Ryan,” he whispers into the darkness. He gets no reply. Brendon can just barely see the rapid movement happening behind his tightly closed eyelids. Waiting for the other boy to lie still for longer than a couple of seconds, Brendon hesitates before reaching out and laying a gentle hand against the top of Ryan’s arm.

The reaction is immediate: Ryan lurches away from the contact, eyes flying open and stretching wide with fear. He topples off the side of the bed opposite Brendon, catching himself on his hands and knees when he hits the floor. He scrambles backward until his back presses against the wall, pulling the blanket still tangled up between his arms and legs along with him.

“Ryan, Ryan it’s just me, it’s just Brendon. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Ryan blinks back up at him, pupils straining to change their shape and see through the dark space between them. Brendon reaches over and tugs the lamp cord, dousing the room in soft yellow light.

“You were having a nightmare,” he explains gently.

Ryan exhales and pulls his legs up to his chest, nodding down at his kneecaps. He tugs at the displaced blanket until it is properly draped across his shoulders, clutching it tightly around his still-shaking body. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay. I was up.” Brendon shrugs, gives a small, chagrined smile. “I had one too.”

Ryan glances upward, eyes meeting Brendon’s for a brief second before returning to the floor. Dottie pads over and pushes her nose against Ryan’s leg with a soft snuffle. He disentangles one arm from the blanket’s folds and scratches his fingers against her pelt.

Brendon lowers himself onto the edge of the mattress, fidgeting as he watches Ryan avoid his gaze. “Ry,” he murmurs quietly, “You know you don’t have to stay here, right?” Confusion and perhaps even a bit of hurt crosses Ryan’s face, and Brendon hurries to add, “I just mean, if you want to go home, now that… I’d understand, hell I’d drive you over there right now, okay, just… I don’t want you to think you _have_ to stay here—”

“Don’t.”

Brendon blinks. “What?”

“Don’t compare this to… to _him_.” Ryan’s nostrils flare out, and he glares down at the fabric stretched over his lap. “It’s not the same. It’s not the same thing.”

Brendon bites his lip. “Okay. Sorry.” They both fall silent again, Ryan continuing to stare sullenly at the thick carpet underneath him. Brendon still feels the need to say something, anything, that will reassure the huddled figure in front of him. “It’ll get easier,” he murmurs, once Ryan’s features have relaxed a bit. “Once you get used to… to him being behind bars. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“He always finds a way,” Ryan replies, his words so quiet Brendon almost doesn’t hear.

A deep frown creases Brendon’s brow. He slides to the floor and scoots several inches closer to where Ryan sits. “Ryan. It’s over. Shane is in jail and he doesn’t have anything else to hold over you. You’re safe now.”

Ryan’s jaw clenches, fingers fiddling with the blanket. “He took _everything_ ,” he whispers, and the way his voice cracks on the last syllable sends a shooting pain through Brendon’s chest. Ryan’s exposed hand has paused in caressing Dottie and Brendon reaches out and grasps it between both of his own.

Ryan raises his head, eyes shining with unfallen tears and a thick sheen of loss as they meet Brendon’s. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” he admits, his lower lip trembling.

“Oh, Ry.” Brendon can’t handle the despair that tinges Ryan’s words. He slides even closer, close enough for his leg to lightly graze Ryan’s. “You’re _you_. You’re Ryan Ross, fuckin’ George Ryan Ross the third with your insane musical talent and weird ability to play every instrument you pick up and questionable fashion choices.”

Brendon brightens a bit when Ryan reacts with a half-laugh, half-sniffling sound, and raises one hand to the side of Ryan’s face, cupping a gentle palm around his soft cheek. Ryan surprises him by remaining unflinching, even leaning into the touch. “You’re smart,” Brendon continues, his chest swelling with affection. “You’re so smart, and you can write like no one else on this godforsaken planet, and you’re strong, and kind, and thoughtful, and hard-working, and… and beautiful.”

He feels the warmth of Ryan’s face flushing against his fingers, and a blush spreads over his own cheeks as well. He catches a tear with his thumb as it leaks from the corner of Ryan’s right eye. “That’s who you are,” Brendon murmurs. “No one’s ever gonna be able to take any of that away from you.” He waits a moment before lowering his hand, his gaze shifting down to where he still holds Ryan’s in his other. “I know I shouldn’t have watched the video, Ry. Or scared you like I did earlier. I really am sorry. Really, really sorry.”

“I know.” Ryan swallows. “I was just… upset. I know you didn’t mean…”

He trails off, not quite finishing the sentiment, but Brendon understands anyway and gives his hand a tender squeeze. They sit in silence for several moments, until Brendon sighs and says, “I don’t think I’m going back to sleep anytime soon. Do you want to go downstairs for a while?”

Ryan nods his agreement and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. With the blanket still draped over his shoulders, he trails after Brendon down the stairs, followed by Dottie, and then Bogart and Penny as they realize something is going on that they want to be a part of.

Brendon connects his phone to the Bluetooth receiver in the living room speakers and turns his music app on shuffle. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“Since when do you drink tea?” Ryan raises his eyebrows, watching Brendon take a teakettle down from one of the cabinets, fill it with water, and set it on the stovetop.

Brendon shrugs. “It’s good for the voice.” He turns on the burner and reaches up to continue rummaging through the cupboard.

“Which is what I said every time you refused to drink it,” Ryan retorts. His expression grows in disbelief when he recognizes the small box Brendon sets on the counter. “Is that… is that the brand I used to take on tour?” He watches the redness as it creeps over Brendon’s face. “You can’t even get that in the States, you have to have it shipped.”

Brendon shrugs again. “I missed the smell of it,” he mutters under his breath.

Something in Ryan’s chest clenches tight. He watches Brendon drop a teabag into each of the two mugs he has set on the counter. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out, after several long seconds of both of them watching the water warm.

Brendon turns to face him, surprise painted across his face. “What?”

“For… back then.” Ryan bites his lower lip. “We were all just… fighting, all the time, and you and Spencer kept wanting to take things in a completely different direction than Jon and I, and then you and I… with all the stress, it…”

“Ryan. Stop.” A troubled frown has fallen over Brendon’s face. “You don’t have to apologize for all of that.”

“No, I do. I do, Brendon, because I handled it all wrong, okay, I…” He grips the edge of the countertop, staring down at the marbled surface. “I should never have just left like I did, without even talking to you so maybe we’d get some closure and actually understand—”

“Ry—”

“I’m just really sorry, okay?” He’s close to tears now, and raises one shaking hand to his face to hide the awful quivering of his chin. “I’m really sorry, and I just needed you to hear me tell you that.”

Brendon stares at him for a second, and his mouth has just opened to respond when the teakettle starts to shriek. Brendon bites his lip and turns away long enough to turn off the burner and pour boiling water over the teabags. He sets one of them down on the counter in front of Ryan and leans forward. “I hear you,” he says.

Ryan releases the shaky breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He follows Brendon to the couch and curls up in one corner, setting the steaming mug on the coffee table in front of him.

Brendon sighs, pulling up and down on the string of his teabag. “It took me a long time, and a lot of stupid petty behavior, to forgive you for leaving,” he admits. Ryan flinches, nodding his understanding. “But,” Brendon continues, “I did and said a lot of dumb, selfish things back then too. You’re not the only one who has shit to be sorry for, okay? And we don’t have to sit around and rehash it now.”

Ryan nods again, picking at a loose thread hanging from the corner of the blanket. Whatever song has been playing fades out and a new one fades in. Brendon’s face lights up as the first few notes find his ears, turning his gaze toward Ryan with the corners of his lips curving upward.

_When there’s nowhere else to run… is there room for one more son? One more son…_

Brendon drops his mug onto the coffee table and turns toward Ryan with a broad grin stretched over his face. With a dramatic flourish, he extends his right hand.

_If you can hold on… hold on._

Ryan blinks down at the hand held out to him.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to dance,” Brendon teases, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

Ryan flushes and ducks his head. He hesitates for a moment before his mouth twists into a bashful smile and he slips his fingers into Brendon’s palm.

_Help me out, yeah, you know you gotta help me out, yeah, oh don’t you put me on the backburner, you know you gotta help me out._

It feels like 2006 again as Brendon twirls Ryan around and around, his living area morphing in Ryan’s mind into a poorly lit dressing room, the dogs running in circles between their feet threatening to trip them just like Panic’s dancers had while scrambling to pull on their costumes. Ryan feels lighter than he has in months, since long before Shane even entered the picture. A peal of laughter bubbles up in his throat, surprising him by bursting readily from his lips, and Brendon reaches into his back pocket and turns up the volume.

_And when there's nowhere else to run, is there room for one more son? These changes ain't changing me; the cold-hearted boy I used to be…_

Brendon is laughing now too, and it takes a moment for Ryan to identify the tremendous swelling of emotion in his chest as happiness, joy; he’s almost forgotten how good it feels.

_I’ve got a soul, but I’m not a soldier. I’ve got a soul, but I’m not a soldier._

“I’ve got a soul, but I’m not a soldieeeeeeer!” Brendon throws his head back, belting the line as loudly as he can. He tugs Ryan into a dip with another impish waggling of his eyebrows. Their faces come close enough to feel each other’s breath. Ryan feels his heart pounding against his ribcage and not just from the physical exertion.

_While everyone’s lost, the battle is won, with all these things that I’ve done._

Ryan is overcome.

As he pivots upright again, spinning on his heel to face Brendon once more, all of the ecstatic exuberance that has built up inside of him explodes. Without stopping to think at all he drops Brendon’s hands and grabs him by the front of his shirt, pulling their bodies close. Their lips meet and Ryan feels like he might burst at the seams and for a moment he wonders if maybe there were drugs in the tea or something because he legitimately feels like he might be tripping, except he hasn’t even had any yet so it has to just be the pure, unadulterated jubilance of the moment sending him soaring so high.

Brendon returns the kiss, his initial hesitance turning to excited enthusiasm. Ryan’s right hand travels up to the nape of the other man’s neck, fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his scalp. Brendon’s hands travel down the sides of Ryan’s torso, sending chills crawling up his spine.

The song ends and their lips part and Ryan pulls away, he and Brendon both gasping for breath and staring at one another with wide, gleaming eyes.

“The song you wrote,” Brendon pants, brushing back strands of hair that have fallen into his face. “Was it…”

“About you.”

Brendon fairly glows in reaction, a beaming grin stretched across his face. Ryan’s stomach does a backflip. “Did you mean it? When you said that…”

“Yes. Yes, Ryan, yes, yes.” Brendon looks like he might either cry or explode. His hands are shaking, they want so badly to be touching Ryan’s skin again. “I want you. I don’t want anyone or anything else, okay, and it took me so long to figure out all the stupid mistakes we made as kids but I swear to god, I get it now, I’m not gonna be selfish anymore and if you tell me things I’ll listen and if you tell me you’re overwhelmed or angry or scared I’ll fucking do something about it, okay, I—”

“Just shut up, Brendon, shut up, I know all of that, you were gonna die for me, you were gonna…” Ryan breathes out, trying to collect himself enough to speak full sentences. He bites his lip. “Just, I-I’m a little worse for wear now—”

“No. Stop.” Brendon reaches out, sweeps his fingers over Ryan’s flushed cheek. “You’re perfect, okay? Jesus Christ, you’re perfect. And I love you.”

Another laugh, this one spluttering as it mixes with a sob, bursts from Ryan’s mouth. “I love you too.” And he does, so much. He’s never stopped.

Brendon reaches out, wraps his arms around Ryan’s shoulders and pulls him close. Ryan nuzzles his face into the crook of Brendon’s neck.

“Play the song again,” he whispers. 

 _If you can hold on…_  
_If you can hold on…  
_ _Hold on._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter didn't seem too stiff, I've been run ragged a lil bit by my life lately so it was hard to fully focus on this while I was writing it (but I really really wanted to get it down so made myself I write it anyway lol).
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who reads/comments/leaves kudos you make me very happy!! <3


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